


His

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, Incest, Infidelity, M/M, Object Insertion, chan 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In detention with Snape during the final Quidditch game of the year during his sixth year, Harry Potter is given a choice between scrubbing cauldrons, and something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tripperfunster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripperfunster/gifts).



> I wrote this fic for the 2013 Secret Snarry fest on LJ/IJ/DW as a pinch-hit for a pinch-hitter. One of the mods tossed me this request: _Gimme chan! Not child!Harry, but school-aged (15? 16?) Harry being punished by Snape. Public or private humiliation during detention is a kink of mine._ Quite a departure from my usual.

The boy was incensed.

He was simmering with an almost palpable rage. At the unfairness. The injustice. Tamping it down with only the most supreme effort. Mature enough – at last – to know that exploding in front of Snape would make it worse, that he’d miss the entire Quidditch season next year too, instead of this single game.

Snape would use that to his benefit.

“Cauldrons.”

Snape looked up for only a second, indicating with a nod toward the corner how Potter would be spending his detention.

“But you don’t even _teach_ Potions! This…this is the Def….” The boy sputtered to a stop as Snape raised his head and stared him into silence.

“Cauldrons,” he repeated.

Potter bristled, fists clenching and unclenching as he took a deep breath, let it out.

“Fine.”

“Yes, sir,” corrected Snape in his best venomous voice, eyes trained on Potter. 

Potter jerked his head in a barely passable nod.

“Yes, SIR.” Snape tapped his wand on the desk, voice deceptively low.

Potter’s bit his lower lip. Snape knew – he _knew_ \- the boy was silently counting to ten.

“Yes, sir.” He said “sir” but what Snape heard was, “You fucking piece of shit.”

Snape watched the boy walk to the corner of the room where he’d piled a Potter-sized stack of dirty cauldrons, ladles, beakers and other preparation detritus. He shifted slightly on his chair. Inciting Potter, getting under the skin of the pathetic spawn of his Gryffindor nemesis, was his favorite pastime, the only thing – the _only_ thing in his bitter existence – that gave him pleasure. 

No. Wrong. Inciting Potter and _watching_ him.

“Robes off!” He barked, not looking up. He heard Potter at the work counter, stacking the cauldrons.

“What? Why?” Potter spun on his heel and faced him. His face was tinged with red, his green eyes sparking. 

His eyes were green but they were not his mother’s. They were an exquisite shade of green, with lashes too long and thick for a smart-alecky, selfish, arrogant Gryffindor brat, but ruined by the ridiculous spectacles. Lily’s eyes had sparkled, not sparked. Lily’s eyes had held compassion, friendship, intelligence.

Lily’s eyes had betrayed him. They had told him he was loved. Wanted. They had melted beneath his gaze, pools of verdant desire, as he whispered to her, as they lay together in her bed, in _James Potter’s_ bed, as Snape promised her his heart, his love, his adoration, his soul.

Lily had deceived him. Deceived herself, she said. Deceived _herself_!

The boy glared at him as he removed his school robes. He draped them over a desk and swallowed, nodded his head – talking to himself again, an internal monologue, telling himself it would be over soon. It was just an hour, two hours, three hours, a morning detention.

Steeling himself.

He was bent over the cauldrons again in a moment, and Snape stared at him unabashedly now. Muggle jeans, too-small, tight, threadbare where arse met thighs. T-shirt, dark-blue, tight across the back, half-tucked in. Potter lifted an arm to pull another cauldron forward and Snape gazed at the hole in the armpit of the old shirt, ripped low enough to show a nipple if the boy turned…if he would just turn.

“Potter!”

He whirled around, too fast for even a glimpse.

“Your shirt is torn.”

Potter stared at him, cauldron held against his front, breathing fast.

“It’s old.” He straightened defiantly. “I didn’t know I’d be taking my robes off.”

“Taking my robes off, _sir_ ,” demanded Snape. 

“I didn’t know I’d be taking my robes off, _sir,_ ” the boy repeated insolently

Snape stood. Wand in hand, he walked toward Harry, watching the insolent look melt off his face and something more like fear – trepidation – take its place.

“Put the cauldron on the work counter.” Snape stopped in front of the boy. The words were an order, but uttered as a mere suggestion, and Potter obeyed without protest. 

“Step forward. Toward me. Two steps.” Snape folded his arms in front of him, raised one hand to his face and rested his chin on his thumb as he watched Harry obey.

The boy hated him. It was beautifully obvious. Hated him. Could barely contain his hatred. He wanted to lash out at Snape. Could barely restrain the passion.

Passion.

“Lift your arm out to the side. I believe we are long overdue for a clothing inspection for you, Mr. Potter. _Orphans_ like yourself should have guidance. Assistance. Perhaps you were never told that clothing so old that it is ripped and worn should be replaced with new? Hmm?”

“My clothes are fine. My clothes are none of your business – ”

“Arms, Mr. Potter,” said Snape. “Straight out.”

He held Potter’s eyes and the boy let out a quiet puff of air and raised his arms. Steady at first, defiant.

Snape began a slow walk around Potter. He used his wand as an inspection tool, pressing the tip against the boy’s bare side where the rip in the shirt exposed skin, running it slowly along the crease between buttock and thigh, stopping behind the boy, standing still, a breath away from leaning forward, pressing his groin into that scawny arse.

Instead, he raised his wand and lifted Potter’s hair up away from his neck.

“You need a haircut.”

“What are you doing? This isn’t … isn’t ….”

“Isn’t _what?_ ” He took a step closer. “Isn’t what, Potter?”

“Isn’t right,” the boy whispered. “I’m supposed to be cleaning cauldrons.”

“You are supposed to be serving a detention with me,” Snape corrected. “Belt, please.”

“Belt?” Potter’s arms fell to his sides. 

“Belt.” Snape completed his circuit and stopped in front of the boy. “If your trousers and shirt are in such deplorable condition, I can only imagine what your pants must look like.”

“No worse than yours did,” the boy muttered.

“Silence!” 

The boy straightened, pressing his shoulders back with what must have been renewed courage. Snape chastised himself for reacting to baiting.

“You’re trying to humiliate me.” Potter seemed to be trying – too hard – for a courageous tone. “Because of my father.”

“Your father was a bully, indulged by his parents, his friends and the headmaster himself. Much like you, Mr. Potter.”

“Right. Indulged by my parents. Check.”

Snape smiled, even though Potter did not look up at him. “Cheek,” he murmured. “Incurable cheek. That mouth of yours, Mr. Potter.”

And then, he was thinking about that mouth. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about having Harry as he’d had Lily. Taking this, too, from James Potter. As James Potter had taken from him. 

“Belt,” Snape reminded Harry. He prodded at the buckle with his wand, let it brush down against the zip as Potter’s shaky hands began to unbuckle the belt.

“I will speak with the house elves on your behalf this evening.” Snape spoke low, conspiratorially. “They will assess your clothing and dispose of any that is ill-fitting or in bad repair. I will replace what is unsalvageable. You will reimburse me, of course.”

“Of course,” repeated Potter, sarcastically. “And when you’re out going shopping for me, could you take someone with you who knows colors other than black? Maybe Professor Trelawney? You could have tea at Madame Puddifoot’s.”

Snape felt the corner of his mouth begin to lift. The cheek of the boy. He schooled his features. “Lower your jeans, Mr. Potter.”

Potter was trembling now, arms shaking with fear, or with rage. He pushed his jeans down onto his thighs and after taking a fortifying breath, looked up at Snape.

“Happy?” he spat.

“Extremely.” Snape shook his head as he repeated his circuit, noting that the white y-fronts were as worn as the jeans. 

“Tsk, tsk.” Snape shook his head, his own heart beating so loudly now that he thought the boy must certainly hear it. Standing behind Potter, he slipped his finger behind the stretched-out elastic of the garment and pulled it down, exposing an arse cheek that was as smooth and firm as he’d imagined it would be.

The boy was underweight, but wiry without being scrawny. The hair on his legs was sparse.

Snape raised his wand and swung it down on the arse cheek.

“Hey!” 

“Did that hurt?” 

Harry wiped at his bum with his hand, then bent to pull his jeans back on.

“Not so fast, Mr. Potter. Allow me to help.”

“I’ve been dressing myself for years, Snape.”

Snape placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Allow me to help, _Harry_.”

Potter froze.

The boy hadn’t fled. Snape had done nothing to restrain him. Fuck, the door wasn’t even locked and warded. He hadn’t threatened Potter if he didn’t obey. He simply asked – demanded – and the boy complied.

He’d never have guessed it would be so easy. The boy was difficult and rebellious. Was this dutiful if reluctant compliance the result of his Muggle upbringing? The product of a childhood of fear?

He pulled the elastic of the pants back up, then took hold of Potter’s jeans and pulled them up onto his hips, reaching around him from the back with both arms to fasten the button. He snaked his hand down to the zip, tracing over the obvious bulge with his fingertips, then pulled it up slowly and tucked the t-shirt into the jeans, sliding his hands down between cotton shirt and demin, pressing a palm against one buttock, then the other in turn as he smoothed down the shirt. He pulled his hands out and rested them on Potter’s hips and the boy’s breath hitched, then he walked around and leaned against the work counter, several feet in front of Potter.

“You wonder what is next,” he said, crossing his feet casually and tapping the end of his wand against his own thigh. His eyes traveled down and fixed themselves on the outline of Harry’s erection. 

“This is supposed to be detention.” Harry raised his chin. “This isn’t supposed to be….” His voice faltered.

“Supposed to be _what_? What, Potter?” He cocked his head, pretending to be listening for something. “Ah. Ravenclaw has just scored again. No hurry for them to catch the snitch, is there, being so far ahead already?”

Harry bristled. “You’re playing with me,” he said. “You’re trying to get a reaction out of me. You don’t know what’s going on in the match.”

Snape laughed. He let his eyes slide slowly down Harry’s body. “Not trying, I’d say,” he countered.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Potter countered. He was all bluster again. “I’m a teenager. It happens all the time. I get a hard-on when the wind changes direction, Snape.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do tell,” he said.

He stood then, took the three steps required to reach Harry, and slid his hand deliberately into Harry’s pants, grasping his prick and squeezing, sliding his hand up and back languidly. 

“Don’t,” Potter whispered. 

It was a weak protest at best. Snape thought he may as well have said “Please.”

Snape undid the button and zip he had fastened only minutes before, and worked his other hand in, finding Harry’s bollocks, warm and young and smooth, and cupping them, rolling them. 

Potter was breathing very fast. Panting, almost. A low moan escaped him as Snape pushed against his perineum, worked a fingertip even further back.

The boy wanted it. The boy _ached_ for it.

He would have to ask for it, then.

Snape withdrew his hands and walked to his desk.

“You may serve out your detention as you began – washing cauldrons until they are clean to my satisfaction.” He opened the desk drawer and swept all the items on the surface of the desk off into it. “Or you can _choose_ a shorter, more pleasurable detention. After which you may join your friends on the pitch.”

Potter stared at him, lips slightly parted.

“Choose.”

“I…” Potter looked at the cauldrons, then at Snape. He shifted from one foot to another, then squared his shoulders and looked at the desk.

“I…I can go…after?”

“You may leave when your detention is served.” Snape looked at the boy. He was biting his bottom lip, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “It should not be long.”

Potter sighed. “I’m going to regret this,” he said as he approached the desk. “Aren’t I?”

Snape shrugged. “You want it, Poter. Now clothes off.” He tapped the desk casually with his wand. “On your back, knees bent.” 

The boy was watching him as he stepped cautiously forward.

“You are a virgin, I assume?”

He watched the boy bite his bottom lip, nod once.

If only Lily had been.

The boy toed off his trainers and bent to pull off his socks before pulling down his jeans and pants, stepping out of them, and kicking them under the desk. He took a deep breath, pulled off his t-shirt, dropped it on the floor, then edged his bum up on the desk and scooted back a notch. He was still biting his lip when Severus stood at the edge of the desk and lifted one foot, then the other, up onto the desk, forcing Potter to bend his knees and expose himself. 

“Scoot forward.”

He positioned the boy so that his arse was at the very edge of the desk, knees spread wide, then without preamble or preparation of any kind, ran his finger across the crease and pressed the tip unapologetically against the boy’s virgin entrance.

The boy winced and Snape smirked.

“Aren’t there spells…?” Potter managed to ask as Snape continued to caress the soft, virgin skin of his anus. “Fred and George said there are.”

The Weasley twins. Figures those two were equal opportunity players. Well, at least Potter had some idea of what was about to happen.

“Of course there are spells. But I won’t be using any of them. Not this time.”

“Hey – I didn’t –ohhh.” 

Snape had grasped the lovely young cock. He gave it a pull or two, then pointed his wand behind him at the cauldrons and summoned a stone pestle. He opened the drawer again, extracted a vial of lubricant, hidden there for slow wanking sessions behind his desk while students – other students – served quiet detentions.

The lubricant was oily, herbal scented, and extremely slippery. He pulled the desk chair around to the end of the desk and sat, sliding his lubed fingers along the exposed crease, the tight entrance, before working one finger slowly inside, delving in to the first knuckle, pulling out, pushing into the second, crooking the fingertip, pulling out. In and out, in and out, watching his finger disappear inside, feeling the exquisite, virgin tightness compress it, feeling Harry Potter quivering around him, watching his thighs shake with the tension of holding still, of holding back.

He liked Potter like this. Spread out for his enjoyment. Coiled tensely. But quiet. Oh so very quiet.

“I’m not sure about this.” The boy’s voice broke the lovely silence. “It’s … weird. They acted like it would be…would...ahh…be…”

Snape had added a second finger beside the first and was working them in and out together, pushing all the way in, pulling out, pushing in again. Twisting, pulling, circling inside, eliciting a groan to follow the weak protest.

He should have known the boy would be made for this.

He might like the boy quiet, but it was too quiet in the room.

“I’m going to fuck you with the pestle first, Mr. Potter,” he said, almost conversationally. “Three fingers first, perhaps four, then the pestle. You can come whenever you’d like. As often as you’d like. I’ll be collecting your semen, of course. Virginal semen will bring a high price. If I can verify it is yours, a king’s ransom. You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Potter? My compensation here can’t begin to make up for the demands made upon me, hmmm?”

“You’re a bastard.” Potter drew out the first syllable, groaned, and pushed down onto Snape’s fingers as he said it, rolling his hips forward, pulling Snape’s fingers further in. _Inviting_ them in, Snape realized. The boy wanted to be fucked.

“Indeed. Three, do you think?”

It was too soon for three, really, but he didn’t care if the boy was uncomfortable. He ignored the pretty prick, red and engorged as it lay against the boy’s stomach, but leaned in and blew against the hole where his fingers were working. The boy tensed and then moaned, covering the moan with a hiss.

“Just fuck me already, Snape.”

Snape withdrew his fingers and picked up the thick, stone pestle, then coated it with lubricant. 

“Handle end first, I think.”

He was taking great pleasure in announcing what he was about to do. It gave a certain legitimacy to his actions, as if announcing them gave Potter a chance to protest, to ask for him to stop.

But Potter never did.

The end was slightly knobbed, and slipped inside the loosened passage with Snape’s gentle press. He didn’t allow Harry to adjust, but pressed the object in slowly, working it until Harry was nearly grunting, then lazily sliding it in and out, twisting it in circles, rolling it until he must have grazed Potter’s protate, for the boy choked back a scream.

There.

There and there and there and _there_.

Torture. He knew it was torture.

And the boy was torturing himself, refusing to take cock in hand, gripping the edges of the desk with white-knuckled fingers. Panting like a woman in labor.

“Ah. If Albus could see you now, Potter. His chosen one, the Boy Who Lived, lying on my desk with a stone pestle up his arse.”

“You won’t – you won’t tell him. He’s sick, Snape. Ahh…ah! Fuck. Fuck!”

“Tell the Headmaster?” Snape reamed the pestle inward and Potter grunted. “I wonder if he’d like a Pensieve memory instead?”

“He’d sack you…he’d…he’d…” Potter groaned again. “I’d tell him you forced…forced me…”

“No one forced you, Harry.” Snape’s voice was soft and oh so deadly. “You _chose_ this.”

Snape stood, continuing to work the smooth stone inside Potter, then bent and licked up the boy’s shaft.

“There is nothing wrong with enjoying this, Harry. I certainly am.”

He had never enjoyed anything inside Hogwarts quite so much, in fact.

He worked the head of the prick inside his mouth and sucked on the tip ruthlessly, no longer able to ignore the ache in his own groin. He would free his cock soon, pound into the boy, take his virginity, keep it forever, this one thing Potter would never have again. 

He ran a finger over the boy’s tight bollocks, and was not surprised when Potter erupted into his mouth, fucking it with abandon, forgetting himself, moaning, grasping Snape’s hair, his head. He was jerking his hips up and when he was spent and fell back onto the desk, knees up and splayed, Severus removed the pestle from Harry while he hiked up his robes and freed his prick. He dropped the stone tool onto the desk.

“Turn over,” he breathed. “Feet on the floor.”

Potter groaned but complied. He rolled onto his belly and stood up, bracing his hands on the desk, chest against the surface, arse pushed back.

His prick was bigger than the pestle, but the preparation had loosened the boy, and he pressed the head in without too much resistance, nearly groaning with the exquisite ache. 

“Oh my god oh my god.” Potter’s breath caught in a strangled groan.

Snape grunted and pressed in further. It was better than anything he’d felt in his life, better than the Dark Lord’s mouth on him long ago when he tested and tasted each new Death Eater. It was better than any whore he’d bought, than the glory hole in the wizard’s bar in Bath, better than the silky feel of Lily that night, that one night, that only night, so many years ago. Better than her regret, than her dismay, her guilt. 

He pressed in another inch and Potter shifted beneath him, whimpering.

He leaned against the smooth back and bit into the boy’s clavicle, then thrust in further still and Harry strangled a cry.

He wondered if he would fit all the way, if the boy was too tight, too new at this, too small. But he wasn’t small, nearly as big as Snape already, and if he was too tight, that too would give. 

Another press, another groan, a moan from Potter, a plea to stop. 

_A plea for more._

And he was in, and resting, and sliding out, and back again, and it was so fucking good, so fucking tight, squeezing him like a fist, like sensual Apparition, like his prick was the center of the universe and Potter’s arse the Kingdom of Camelot. He knew he’d found his prostate again when Potter muffled a scream into the wood, so he repeated the angle, the thrust, until Harry was crying out, and pressing back into him, fucking him back, raising his chest off the desk and thrusting back his arse into Snape’s prick.

 _He’s fucking me. The little prick is fucking me_ Snape realized, his mind playing out the scene, longing to drop it into a Pensieve and wank to it every day of his life, and he worked a hand beneath the boy and found a nipple and pinched it hard. Potter reacted by pushing back harder, nearly thrashing on the desk, so Snape pinched it again, and Harry Potter and Snape nearly pulled out, then slammed in. He was close, so close, bollocks drawn up tight against him, throbbing ache between his legs, every drop of blood in his cock and balls and every sensation in his body there. Power surging through him, through his cock, punishing Harry Potter, rewarding Harry Potter, ruining him, creating him, changing him, owning him.

His orgasm erupted from him, and he pressed deep into the body beneath his, twisting the nipple he was still holding, pressing the boy and his cock against the desk until Potter, too, was twitching beneath him, spent again, his arse contracting around Snape’s cock, still so tight that even partially deflated, he flinched when Severus pulled out.

Severus stood, dropped his robes, and stared down at the boy.

He could not help touching the quivering buttocks, squeezing handfuls of flesh, pulling apart the crease to see the evidence of the act, the dripping hole, the semen streaked skin. 

The birthmark, moon-shaped, on the left buttock.

Snape stared at it and took a step back.

“Roll over.”

The boy rolled over gingerly.

“Feet up again.”

Harry slid in the pooled ejaculate on the desk, worked his bum back on the edge of the desk without having to be told, lifted his feet.

Snape stared at his toes.

At the two toes beside the big toe. At the web of skin that attached them halfway up the length of the longer toe.

He smirked. His heart leapt in triumph.

“You will not fuck or be fucked by any student at Hogwarts. If you want release, you will come back to me. Understood?”

Potter rolled his head to the side and stared at him. He started to shake his head, but Snape glared.

“Understood?”

“Yeah. Right.” He attempted a smile. “Might not survive another go.”

“Oh, you will survive it, Mr. _Potter_ ,” Snape drawled. “You will not speak of this.”

Potter rolled off the desk and stood. He was a mess of sweat and semen.

He bent to pick up his clothes.

“Potter?”

Harry looked up.

“Kiss me.”

Snape had dropped back down on the chair, and stared at Harry expectantly.

Harry swallowed.

“I’ve just fucked your brains out, Potter. Surely you don’t expect to leave without kissing me.”

“No.” The boy held his clothes against him, balled up tightly.

“Kiss me. You don’t want the headmaster to hear about this. About how his favorite student seduced his professor to get back to the Quidditch game.”

“I didn’t! I – you – offered.”

“You accepted. You are complicit in the act. Kiss me.”

He deserved this. Snape _deserved_ something back for the hell he suffered. 

He watched as Potter approached him tentatively, then reached up and pulled the boy to him before he could reconsider. He threaded his hands in the messy hair, cupped the back of his head, worked his lips over Potter’s, worked his tongue into his mouth, mapping teeth and palate and tongue and gums, then dropping down to kiss along his neck and ear as the boy shivered.

Snape pushed him away, and watched as the boy finished dressing, pulling pants and jeans up over sex-stained skin.

“The house elves will be assessing your clothes, as I said,” Snape said with a nod when Harry stood before him, dressed again, robes covering his rumbled clothes. “I will expect payment in kind.”

“In kind,” repeated Potter. He looked shell-shocked and beautifully well-shagged.

“Go. You can catch the end of the game.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “Thanks,” he breathed. He backed away from Snape, a tentative smile on his face.

“Remember – you wanted this. You _chose_. You were given choices. The option to scrub the cauldrons. That is what matters, Potter.”

Potter nodded and turned.

“Wait.”

Potter paused at the door, turning slowly to face Snape.

“What is that phrase of which the Headmaster is so fond? ‘It is our choices that show what we truly are?’”

Potter’s face fell. He disappeared through the door and did not look back.

Snape stared at the door, then sat back in the chair, hands steepled before him.

The moon-shaped birthmark.

The extra webbing on the toes.

Snape features. Both of them.

The tousled hair. Tobias’ hair, not only James Potter’s.

James Potter had worn glasses. But Snape’s father had been severely nearsighted too.

Snape threw his head back and laughed. 

The boy was his. 

His.

He looked at the desk again, ran a finger through the sticky mess.

_His._

 

_Fin_


End file.
